


Control.  Release.

by Anonymous



Category: Game Grumps
Genre: Alcoholism, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Crying, Gen, No Dialogue, Self Harm, Triggers, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unrequited Love, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-18 08:53:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13096671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: It started out with a kiss how did it end up like this?  It was only a kiss.  It was... everything.  It was everything to Brian.  But not to Dan.  He thought.  Maybe.  But now all that pain had culminated.  And he was spiraling hard and fast and needing control.





	Control.  Release.

Dan had kissed him once. 

In a moment of joy and giddiness, a moment where Dan had lapsed in logic. 

That was a month ago. Brian wasn't over it. He cried over it almost every night. He'd cried over it the night it happened. 

After a concert when Dan was floating so high and Brian was worn to the bone. Dan had grabbed him and kissed him almost roughly. 

He'd let go immediately, leaving Brian feeling confused and lost and... scared. 

It was wrong. It didn't feel the way it should, the way books and movies and fantasy after fantasy told him it should feel. But Dan's reaction hurt most. He'd looked disgusted with himself. 

Brian had sobbed in the shower, turning the water on too hot, because maybe he could burn away the feeling of Dan's hands on his shoulders, the embarrassed flush down his skin, the taste of Dan's lips on his own. 

Tears had streamed down his face, body shivering despite the intense heat of the water. And he just felt so lost, shaking and sobbing in a too hot shower in an unfamiliar hotel in an unfamiliar city. 

He and Dan hadn't spoken for two weeks. And then they were and Dan acted like nothing happened. 

Brian did too. He didn't know what else to do. 

He still ached over it, yearned for more. Yearned for something real. 

He was crying in his bed, quiet and wrapped up in all his blankets. He wanted something wth anyone. He didn't want to go through this pain. 

He wasn't going to take this. He wiped his eyes, getting up. He was going to do something about that pit in his stomach. 

That's how he found himself in a noisy bar, nursing a drink. He wanted a hook up. He wanted to forget. 

The next morning, he woke up in an unfamiliar place. His hips ached and there were bruises on his neck. And he wanted to cry. 

It head worked. The kisses and the gentle fucking from a stranger had made him feel whole. Made it all go away as hands held him. But now... it all came rushing to the surface. He closed his eyes and rolled over, the hangover a distant thought as he curled in a ball. 

He got himself home. He took another hot shower and cried. 

Work sucked. He got teased for hickeys on his neck, and just felt like garbage. He couldn't bring himself to eat anything, stomach twisted into knots.

He sat at his desk silently, mechanically working through emails. He mumbled a faint response to each question of whether he was okay or not. He wasn't. But he said he was. 

He hadn't been okay in at least a month. 

Before the kiss had happened, he'd been on his way to a breakdown anyway. He'd been overtired, stressed, and sleep deprived. Combined with his usual anxiety and depression, it would've led to his usual breakdown. 

Sobbing into a pillow for a full night, calling off of work because of the migraine that followed, and spending the day watching shitty movies and getting drunk. Then carrying on. 

This was different. He was scared. He wanted the pain to stop and his mind was going darker places than he tended to allow. 

Brian blinked slowly as the day began drawing to a close. His skin felt too tight. He needed control. Release. 

He shakily left, gripping the wheel too tight. He needed this to stop. He needed a lot of things. Control. Release. Control. Release. 

The words were loud in his head, drowning out almost all his logic. He hurried into the bathroom at home, digging out a disposable razor. He snapped the plastic casing and sat on the edge of the tub. The metal fell into his hand, the broken razor on the floor. He stared at his pale wrist, silent as he adjusted the blade. 

The logic in his head surged forward. It would be too hard to hide there. He pulled one leg over the opposite knee, shoving up the leg of his jeans. Perfect. 

He dug the blade into his calf, the sharp metal making clean lines. The blood started to appear, beading on the split skin and pooling together. He stared hazily as the beads began to roll down his leg.

They dripped onto the floor, and the cuts stung. They stung like any paper cut, just a little worse. And his chest felt a little less tight. 

Before he knew it, there were 11 lines, slowly dropping blood down his leg. 

He pressed the blade down once more. Making a perfect 12. 

He stared at the dark red of his own blood, down his calf. Down to the floor. The first cuts were already starting to slow down, the last one freely bleeding. 

In that moment, it felt like he'd done the right thing. He could breathe freely for the first time in over a month. His head felt clearer. And for what? Just a little pain? Fine. 

He sat there for awhile, just breathing. He'd been craving control. Craving the feeling of releasing some of the whatever he had pent up inside. 

He cleaned up and found himself in bed. 

The next morning his leg hurt. The stinging felt worse and he couldn't take his mind off it. He winced as he stood, swallowing. It had been such a bad idea. 

Blood stained between pieces of tile. He slowly got undressed to shower, startled at the appearance of the cuts. They looked worse. But... the feeling of control was still there. He could just hide the cuts. 

And nights later, there were more. The same number on his other leg. When his chest felt too tight. Control. But he needed... more. 

He got up, ignoring the blood dripping down his leg. It stained his floor. He didn't care. He drank from the bottle. He drank until he wanted to puke, letting himself sob. Release. 

He woke up on the kitchen floor, hungover. But only his head hurt, not his chest. He could deal with a headache. 

And it went on. Scars formed, cuts appearing over them. Puking just happened in the mornings. Control. Release. 

He was getting better. It didn't hurt to talk to Dan anymore. His legs hurt, and sometimes the cuts would bleed longer than they used to. But he could talk and smile and laugh. He was fine. 

Until it wasn't. There wasn't enough control. He stared at the new blade, the plastic of the razor scattered on the floor. Just like the first time. 

He needed more. He lifted his shirt and slowly pressed the blade against his hip. The skin was softer there. More sensitive. 

He felt it more as the skin split, felt the pain. Control. Control was good. He could control this. Control how deep he pushed it, how far he dragged it, how many he made. 

He made less. They bled longer, but he just held a towel over it. The towel used to be yellow. It was reddish brown in a lot of spots now. 

He went to his kitchen to drink. To get release. The alcohol made him feel the inner pain. Let him cry. Let him open up everything. But only until morning. 

He was okay. 

But the cuts gathered on his hips. And then he'd stretched at work. 

And Dan knew. Dan had seen. 

And the fear he'd felt before all the control and release came back. 

Oh god.


End file.
